Winter's Auspice
by dress without sleeves
Summary: It is Christmas Eve in the Stanton household, and Merriman comes to see his Watchman, bearing a gift. PostSilver on the Tree.


Winter's Auspice

_For Mr. Phillips_

_and his stupid linear programming._  


Winter had fallen quickly, avoiding autumn's thick and brittle branches, covering the earth in pure white snow eighteen inches high. The Stanton boys hadn't minded, at first; not until it came time to shovel the walk, anyway. Then there'd been choruses and complaints and grumbling (usually soothed by the promise of warm hot chocolate and smell of supper). James, as usual, whined the loudest, citing his delicate throat as cause for exemption from labor—his voice had dropped recently and he'd become a favorite of the choirmaster at school.

He'd gotten a mouthful of snow for his troubles, and not even Will had been able to keep from laughing at his expense.

"Bloody git," James managed laughingly, through a mouthful of powdery white ice. "Next time I'll—"

"—Sing at me?" Stephen interjected amusedly, his lips quirking upwards in a light grin.

"Tell Sarah about that time you stole cigarettes and blamed it on Paul," James corrected with a smug fold of his arms. Sarah, Stephen's new wife, was the object of endless amusement and torment from the Stanton boys. "Bet you she'd _love_ that."

Robin snickered, flicking a handful of snow at his blushing twin. "Not Sarah. Paul's her favorite—she likes him better than she likes you." He laughed as Stephen launched playfully at him, tackling him into the snow. James sniffed disdainfully as they wrestled, turning to Paul with a wry smile.

"You're everybody's favorite," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Can't for the life of me figure why. I'm smarter, funnier, _and _better-looking." He winked. "Must be that sissy instrument you play."

Paul gasped in mock-outrage, stuffing another handful of cold snow down James' jacket. "Sissy, you say?" He laughed, taking off across the yard as James yowled, hopping around as he attempted to free himself of the cold before chasing headlong after his brother.

Will shook his head, clapping his hands together to warm his tingling fingers. The snow had melted on his wool gloves and wet his hands; he blew into his palms to try and warm them as he watched his brothers play. He glanced around once, carefully, before closing his eyes and cheating (just a little). He created a tiny handful of fire to dry his gloves and warm his hands. He stamped it out quickly, before he could be noticed, and picked up a shovel.

Robin eventually stumbled out of Stephen's grip, face flushed from laughter, pushing back against his brother until the oldest Stanton tumbled tiredly to the ground. "You cheated," he griped cheerfully. "Very un-Stanton-like behavior, Robin."

Will interfered before the twin could react. "And what do you call leaving this whole walk to your youngest baby brother, eh?" He asked, mock-pouting. "Only fifteen and already a slave to the man."

His older brothers exchanged guilty glances for a moment, the natural Stanton protect-the-weak meter clocking in off the charts. Will was, briefly, annoyed; he was almost tempted to create fire or melt all the snow or turn into a hawk just to show them that—despite his size—he was hardly weak.

But it was true; by normal human standards, Will Stanton was the runt. He'd discovered that, as the Watchman, he aged very slowly, so that his body treated years like months and days like hours. In four years he'd grown barely an inch, his voice had yet to drop, and he was still cursed with knobby knees.

Robin and Stephen grabbed their shovels and started working dutifully, chattering at Will as if they hadn't noticed his annoyance (and perhaps they hadn't). Will sighed, shaking his head tiredly as Paul rounded the barn and started back towards the band—James close on his heels. "Will! Protect me!" He cried, whipping around to place his youngest brother as a barrier between himself and his pursuer.

Will stiffened for a moment, even knowing James was the only 'danger'. Then he shook off the feeling, wielding his shovel like a weapon. "James, I'm afraid I can't let you hurt Paul," he declared somberly, his face straight. "He's my very favorite sister."

There was a moment of silence before Paul cried out in offense and the other three dissolved into laughter; Will managed to keep his face straight for only a few moments before giving in himself. He couldn't help the puff of pride that bulged his chest; Old One or not, he was still the youngest, and points scored against any of his older brothers were cause for delight.

He let Paul wrestle him into the snow without much resistance; he couldn't have put up too much of a fight anyway, what with his scrawny arms.

Robin finally pulled them apart, winking at Will. "I couldn't have much more of that. Too embarrassing, seeing a little girl like Paul take you on, Will."

"It's not my fault I'm so small," he grumbled good-naturedly, brushing the snow off his shoulder.

"Yeah, don't blame Peter Pan over here," James added. "He just wants to be a real boy!"

Stephen slapped the back of his head lightly, swinging his foot down by James' ankles so that he toppled over, ass over feet. "That's Pinocchio, you twat."

As the younger boy opened his mouth to respond, Mrs. Stanton's voice carried over the snow, "Are you boys going to get to work or not? The cocoa is getting cold and I'm in half a mind to drink it all myself!"

There wasn't much talk after that; just the cold gusts of breath and hasty scrape of shovel against snow. The walk took only about fifteen minutes, with the five of them plowing from the road back towards the house, every step enveloped more in the scintillating aroma of hot chocolate and Christmas Eve dinner.

Mrs. Stanton came outside to inspect, her lips twisting upwards as she applauded. "There's my good sons," she declared with a warm smile. "Now, who's thirsty? Dad's inside guarding that chocolate like a war general, and good luck getting any."

They tumbled inside, shedding jackets and gloves the way that Stanton women shed hair, circling around their father's armchair and holding mugs with the puppiest of expressions.

Mr. Stanton was wrapped in three blankets, his worn face smiling but tired, turning away only once to cough. He was thin, and frail, and Will's heart hurt just looking at him—he couldn't help but think _I didn't think it would start so soon, the leaving_ because he knew—as much as he hated it—he knew that they _would_ all leave him, eventually. Each and every one of his family members would grow old, and frail, and sick, and succumb to the indisputable laws of gravity.

"One for my Will," Mr. Stanton croaked, pouring him some of the warm liquid. "And one for my James—and Paul—and Robin—and—_cough_—Stephen." He gave each a meticulously even measure (a lifetime of 'that's not fair' had taught him well) and leaned back, smiling. "And just enough left for me."

Will kissed his father's cheek and walked into the kitchen, stomping his feet and shaking off snow. "Not in the _house_, Will," Mary scolded, thin frame hustling him onto the welcome mat to finish cleaning off.

Mary had left puberty far behind in the last year or so, shedding her extra weight and emerging suddenly a lovely, curvaceous young woman. She'd attracted more boys in the passed two months than Gwen had wrangled in a year (a fact which she'd lorded delightedly over them all). Many-a-lad had been run from the house, an army of Stanton men growling after them (much to Mary's outward dismay and secret pleasure).

"Sorry," he grinned.

Mary shook her head and wordlessly began sorting the post—Will kept one eye trained carefully on her, even if he knew none of them would be from Bran and none of them would be for him. (He hadn't, at first, wanted to believe the future he saw for himself—he hadn't wanted to accept that without his heritage as Pendragon, without the adventure, without the life-and-death, toe-on-the-line circumstances, he and Bran never established that brotherly closeness. He has his memories and his leftover emotions and sometimes the fact that Bran thinks more about pretty _Jenny-oh_ than him hurt so much that he can barely _breathe_.)

"Something wrong, Will?" Stephen's pretty wife asked, her face a mask of polite concern and nervous discomfort.

He smiled to puts her at ease. "Don't worry," he mumbled (forgetting that it's technically a command and almost winces when she visibly relaxed). "Just hungry."

"Dinner's coming," Gwen answered him, poking her head out from around the corner, hair loose in wisps around her face. "Be a love and pass me the phone, will you?"

He did so obediently, teasing lightly as he hands it over, "Calling David _again_? You'd think you'd rather be with him than here with your own favorite brother!"

Gwen poked her tongue out foolishly. "That's because I would," she sassed lightly, blowing him a kiss. "Now get back inside and tell those brothers of ours that supper's ready and to start getting Dad settled at the table." She paused for a second, thumb hovering over the number two button on the phone. "And—Will? Make sure he gets to sit at the head this year, okay?"

His mind was far away as he repeated the orders to his family (adding the part about Mr. Stanton in a low whisper to Stephen). He was trying not to look at his father—was trying not to think about Bran or Jane or Barney or Simon—was trying not to think about how peaceful and glorious and _warm_ it had looked on the _Pridwen_ as Merriman sailed away, out of time, to a place denied to Will for centuries to come.

He tried not to understand that he was only half a boy and even less a Watchman, because an Old wizard is not truly himself without a king to pledge to, and Bran had given up that right (not realizing that he was, in the process, also giving up Will).

He sat down between Paul and Robin (knowing it was a mistake because they'd just be talking to each other all night, anyway) and was applauding the delicious looking roast when he felt it.

A _shift_.

He could practically hear the clock slowly and could see his family's motions coming to a near-halt; he fell backwards out of his chair and leapt to his feet, eyes slamming against every corner in the room looking for something Dark (because it's hard to break old habits, even ones you know unnecessary).

"Will."

The voice was soft and amused and he spun so quickly that his head whirled. "Merriman!"

He threw himself forward, into the old man's arms, taking in his feel and scent and presence for a minute before he could begin to think about _how_ and _why_. "I—I didn't think—why—"

"I said I'd check up on you, didn't I?" Merriman asked, laughing deeply. "Although I admit your happiness to see me is wonderful for this old man's ego. I've missed you, Old One."

Will smiled so broadly his face hurt, and the fifteen year old boy bled quickly out of him, leaving only the calm blood of an Old One. "And I, you," he returned. "How can I be of service to you?"

Merriman shook his head. "I chose today for a reason, Old One. From out of time we have been watching our Watchman—with both pride and sorrow, Will. You are everything we could have hoped for. And you have only just begun." He nodded, but the words dragged him a step or two away from his earlier elation.

"Only just," he murmured sadly. "Yes."

"Will," Merriman said softly. "We felt—_I_ felt—there are certain things that you must understand about yourself." He hesitated. "You have learned everything that the Book of Gramarye could teach you. You are an example of a young Old One, my friend. But . . . at heart you are also a fifteen-year-old child."

Will didn't allow himself to respond automatically, petulantly, _I am not a child_.

Merriman laughed, hearing the thought. "Of course not," he teased, and Will smiled sheepishly. "I want to tell you, Will, for I can see the thoughts already: you are not alone."

"I know you'll come to check on me," Will began, "But—"

"There is no reason not to form bonds while on Earth, Will."

He shook his head. "I can give you countless now," he answered dully. "They will die. I will not. They will grow old. I will not. They will ask questions, and I can not give them answers." He lowered his voice. "Bran does not remember and I cannot—_will _not—ask him to. To him, I am just—Will Stanton. That strange boy who came. We are not—we are not—" His voice broke. "With the Drews it is the same. Simon never liked me and Barney's too young to care one way or the other, and . . ." and then it was pouring out of him, all the things he could not say to any other soul alive. "And my Dad is dying and don't you see that it's _starting_ right _now_, already they are dying and they will _keep_ dying, all of them, all of them! And even before death I will have to leave them, I will have to run away when I look twenty when I ought to be fifty, when they are old an I am still young. Don't you see? Don't you? Bran was my best friend, he was my _pendragon_ and now he _isn't_ and I have _nobody_, no one to ally myself to and half of me just hates them all sometimes because they don't understand that I—that I—"

He broke off, breathing heavily. "That I _must leave them_."

Merriman looked at him sadly. "You are right, Will. You must leave them. It is your duty." He hesitated. "But you cannot live this life without human connections. I had . . . I had a wife, once." The old man smiled. "She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. We were married for fifty years, before I had to leave her."

His eyes bugged. "Fifty years?" he asked quietly. "But how?"

Merriman reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small necklace with a Sign on it—identical to the sign of Wood that Will had received the Christmas of his eleventh year. "While you wear this, you will age regularly," he said quietly, "at least outwardly. You will still never get sick and grey hairs and wrinkles will take longer. In fifty years it will stop its magic and you will once again age at an unspeakably slow rate."

Will clasped the necklace in his palm. "So I—I have fifty years with them," he murmured, and then looked up sharply. "I have fifty years with them?"

Merriman nodded. "Use them well, Will Stanton." He began to fade and Will threw his arms around the old man one last time. "I will be back."

Will walked slowly back to his chair, taking a seat as time sped up again. Paul blinked at him. "What?" he asked, somewhat grouchily, fastening the pendant around his neck.

"I could swear I just saw you—_flicker_," his big brother said in amazement, and then shook his head. "Eyes playing tricks, that's all."

Will smiled, his hand over his head. He could smell the roast and practically taste the mashed potatoes.

And he still didn't have Bran, or Jane, or Barney, or Simon; and he would still have to leave his family, in the end; and he would still have to watch them die or wipe their memories of him; and he would have to form countless, ageless lives in the future with different names in a different places and different people (who he would have to love and leave and lose).

The only difference was fifty years—not even a blink in his almost endless lifespan of centuries. Fifty years. A mere, pathetic, wonderful fifty years that would pass in what would seem later like a hiccup.

But he was fifteen, for now, and it was Christmas Eve and he had fifty years left with these people—fifty years left to love and tease and attend weddings and be a godfather and shovel snow.

"Well, Will?" Mary asked, blinking at him. "Everyone else has answered. Where will you be in 10 years?"

And he beamed at her, simply glowed as he said, "I'll be 25, and _still_ Mum's favorite child," and then laughed because it was true, every word.


End file.
